Shadrach in the Furnace

  “Shadrach—”

  He waits. She is groping for words. He suspects he knows what she wants to say: to tell him once more that she is sorry, that she had no choice, that although she betrayed him it was only out of a sense of the inevitability of what would befall. It is an endless awkward moment.

  At last she says, “We’re doing well on the project.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I have to go on with it, you know. There’s no other way for me. But I want you to realize that I hope it never is used. I mean, it’s valuable research, it’s a tremendous breakthrough, but I want it to remain just a laboratory achievement, just a—a—”

  She falters.

  “That’s all right,” he tells her, and hears an odd tenderness creeping into his voice. “Don’t torment yourself about it, Nikki. Do your work, do it well. That’s all you need to think about. Do your work.” For an instant, only an instant, he feels a flicker of what he once felt for her. “Don’t worry about me,” he says gently. “I’m going to be all right.”

  On the third day the bandage comes off his hand. There is only a faint pink line to mark the place where the implant was inserted, a barely perceptible furrow against the darker pink of his palm. Like his master, Shadrach is a swift healer. He flexes his hand—slight muscular soreness, he notes—but is careful not to clench it into a fist. He is not ready to test the new device.

  At the end of the week, with Genghis Mao rapidly mending, Shadrach allows himself an evening in Karakorum. He goes alone, on a mild summer night with the scent of new blossoms and the hint of rain in the air, and hires a cubicle in the dream-death pavilion, strips and dons the loincloth and the chest bands, takes the polished talisman from the lioness-headed guide, looks upon the pattern of spiraling lines, disappears into the hallucination. Once more he dies. He gives up hope and fear and striving and dismay and anxiety and need, he gives up breath and life, he dies to the world and is reborn in another place, rising above his hollow outworn husk, looking down upon it, that long brown empty form with its spidery sprawl of limbs hanging out uselessly, and floats out, out into the fragrant void, where time and space are cut loose from their moorings. Everything is accessible to him, for he is dead. He enters a city of ox carts and alleyways and low wooden buildings strung out in rambling impenetrable mazes, a place of picturesque squalor and medieval filth, and sees the lords and ladies in their green and scarlet brocaded robes tumbling in the unpaved streets, howling, sobbing, trembling, sweating, crying to the Lord, clutching at the throbbing swollen places under their arms and between their legs. Yes, yes, the Black Death, and Shadrach goes among them saying, I am Shadrach the healer, come from the land of the dead to save you, and he touches their fiery swellings and lifts them to their feet and sends them forth into life, and they sing hymns to his name. And he moves on to another city, a place of bamboo and silk, of gardens rich with chrysanthemums and junipers and small contorted pines, and in the stillness of the day a fireball bursts in the sky, a great mushroom cloud bellies toward the roof of heaven, houses break into flame, the people rush into the blazing streets, small folk, almond-eyed, yellow-skinned, and Shadrach, standing like an ebony tower among them, tells them in soft tones not to be afraid, that it is only a dream that afflicts them, that pain and even death may yet be rejected, and he spreads forth his hands to them, soothing them, draining the fire from them. The sky fills with ash and soot and pumice and it is the night of Cotopaxi once more, the volcano rumbles and hisses and drones, the air turns to poison, and the young black doctor kneels in the streets, breathing in the mouths of the fallen, raising them, comforting them. And he moves on. The howling Assyrian hordes ride through the streets of Jerusalem, slashing without mercy, and Shadrach patiently sews together the sundered bodies of the fallen, saying. Rise, walk, I am the Healer. The great woolly beasts flee as the glacial snows melt beneath the suddenly colossal sun, and the people of the caves grow thin and feeble, and Shadrach teaches them to eat grasses and seeds, to collect the berries of the newly sprouted thickets, to string weirs across the streams to snare the frisky fishes, and they worship him and paint his image on the walls of the holy cave. He takes Jesus from the cross when the Roman soldiers go off to the tavern, slinging the limp body over one shoulder and hurrying into a dark hut, where he wipes the blood from the maimed hands and feet, he applies ointments and unguents, he mixes a healing draft of herbs and juices and gives it to Him to drink, telling Him, Go. Walk. Live. Preach. He seines the fragments of Osiris from the Nile, he rejoins the severed members, he breathes life into the fallen god and summons Isis, saying, Here is Osiris. I, Shadrach, restore him to you. The sky grows green with strange cloudbursts, and the Virus War breaks above the cities of mankind, and the alien rot enters the bodies of mankind, and as the people groan and fall. Shadrach raises them, saying, Fear nothing. Death is transient. Life awaits you. And in the heavens is the smiling face of Genghis Mao. Shadrach drifts across the centuries, moving freely in space and time, and gradually he becomes aware that he is no longer alone, that there is a woman beside him, plucking at his sleeve, trying to tell him something. He ignores her. He hears celestial choirs singing his name: “Shadrach! Shadrach!” And the heavenly voices cry, “O Shadrach! You are the true healer, you are the prince of princes! Shadrach who was, Genghis to be! All hail Shadrach!” And a voice like thunder cries out, “You henceforth shall be known as Genghis III Mao V Khan!”

  And the woman plucks at his sleeve, and he sees that she is Katya, and he says, “What do you want?” She says, It’s too late. He says, “The next donor’s already been picked?” Yes. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me his name.” I don’t think I should. “Who is he?” You, she says. The world erupts in flame and flood. The laughter of Genghis Mao rolls through the heavens, shattering mountains.

  Shadrach awakens. He sits up.

  He clenches his fist and holds it tightly clenched.

  Out of Ulan Bator, four hundred kilometers to the east, comes the terrible jolt of Genghis Mao’s agony, the silent scream of the sensors reporting the wave of pain that is sweeping through the Khan.

  Shadrach approaches Interface Three and announces, “Shadrach Mordecai to serve the Khan.”

  He is scanned. He is approved. He is admitted.

  It is close to midnight. Shadrach goes at once to the Khan’s bedroom, but Genghis Mao is not there. Shadrach frowns. The Khan has been strong enough to leave his bed for the past several days, but it is odd that he should be wandering around this late at night. Shadrach finds a servitor who tells him that the Khan has spent most of the evening in the secluded study known as the Khan’s Retreat, on the far side of the seventy-five-story compound, and is probably there now.

  Onward, then. Into the Khan’s office—he is not there—and thence to the private imperial dining room, empty, and then Shadrach goes into his own office, where he pauses a moment, collecting himself amid his familiar and beloved possessions, his sphygmomanometers and scalpels, his microtomes and trephines. Here, in a flask, is the authentic abdominal aorta of Genghis II Mao IV Khan. Surely a treasure of medical history, that one. And here, the newest addition to Shadrach’s museum, is a lock of Genghis Mao’s thick, rank, preternaturally dark hair, an exhibit perhaps more fitting for a museum of witchcraft and voodoo than one of medicine, but yet appropriate, for it was removed in the course of preparations for brain surgery carried out successfully in the celebrated patient’s ninetieth (or eighty-fifth, or ninety-fifth, or whatever) year of life. And so. Onward. He presents himself to the door of the Khan’s Retreat and asks entry.

  The door rolls back.

  The Khan’s Retreat is the room least used on the floor, accessible only through Shadrach’s office and insulated against the intrusion of even the loudest external distractions. Its ceiling is low, its lights are dim, its furnishings are ornate and oriental, running toward thick draperies and elaborate carpets. Genghis Mao lies on a cushioned divan along the left-hand wall. Already his sh
aven scalp is coveted by a thin black stubble. The vitality of the man is irrepressible. But he looks shaken, even dazed.

  “Shadrach,” he says. His voice is thick and scratchy. “I knew you’d get here. You felt it, didn’t you? About an hour and a half ago. I thought my head was going to explode.”

  “I felt it, yes.”

  “You told me you were putting a valve in me. To drain off the fluid, you said.”

  “We did, sir.”

  “Doesn’t it work right?”

  “It works perfectly, sir,” Shadrach says mildly.

  Genghis Mao looks confused. “Then what made my head hurt so much a little while ago?”

  “This did,” says Shadrach. He smiles and stretches forth his left hand and clenches his fist.

  For a moment nothing happens. Then Genghis Mao’s eyes widen in shock and amazement. He growls and clamps his hands to his temples. He bites his lip, he bows his naked head, he drives his knuckles against his eyes, he mutters anguished guttural curses. The implanted sensors that report on the bodily functions of the Khan tell Shadrach of the intense reactions within Genghis Mao: pulse and respiration rates climbing alarmingly, blood pressure dropping, intracranial pressure severe. Genghis Mao coils into a huddled ball, shivering, groaning. Shadrach lets his fingers relax. Gradually the pain recedes from Genghis Mao, the tense crumpled body uncoils, and Shadrach ceases to feel the broadcast of shock symptoms.

  Genghis Mao looks up. He stares at Shadrach for a long moment.

  “What have you done to me?” Genghis Mao asks in a harsh whisper.

  “Installed a valve in your skull, sir. To drain away the dangerous accumulations of cerebrospinal fluid. However, I should tell you that the action of the valve has been designed to be reversible. Upon telemetered command it can be made to pump fluid into the cranial ventricles instead of draining it from them. I control the action of the valve, here, by a piezoelectric crystal implanted in my palm. A twitch of my hand and the fluid ceases to drain. A harder twitch and I can pump it upward. I can interrupt your life processes. I can cause you instant pain of the kind you have now experienced twice, and in a surprisingly short span of time I could cause your death.”

  Genghis Mao’s facial expression is entirely opaque. He considers Shadrach’s declaration in silence.

  Eventually he says, “Why have you done this to me, Shadrach?”

  “To protect myself, sir.”

  The Khan manages a glacial smile. “You thought I would use your body for Project Avatar?”

  “I was certain of it, sir.”

  “Wrong. It wouldn’t ever have happened. You’re too important for me as you are, Shadrach.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You think I’m lying. I tell you that there was never any possibility we would have activated Project Avatar with you as the donor. Don’t misunderstand me, Shadrach. I’m not pleading with you now. I’m simply telling you how things really stand.”

  “Yes, sir. But I know your teachings concerning redundancy, sir. I feared I was about to be made dispensable, I have made myself indispensable now, I think.”

  “Would you kill me?” Genghis Mao asks.

  “If I felt my life was in danger, yes.”

  “What would Hippocrates say about that?”

  “The right of self defense is allowed even to physicians, sir.”

  Genghis Mao’s smile grows warmer. He seems to be enjoying this discussion. There is no trace of anger on his face.

  He says calmly, merely raising a speculative hypothesis, “Suppose I have you seized by stealth, immobilized before you can clench your fist, and put to death?”

  Shadrach shakes his head, “The implant in my hand is keyed to the electrical output of my brain. If I die, if I’m mindpicked in any way, if there’s any sort of significant interruption in my brain waves, the valve automatically begins pumping cerebrospinal fluid to your medulla. The moment of my death is the automatic prelude to your own, sir. Our fates are joined. Guard my life, sir, for your own sake.”

  “And if I have the valve removed from my head and replaced by one that isn’t quite as—ah—versatile?”

  “No, sir. There’s no way you could enter surgery without my implant system notifying me of it. I’d take defensive action, naturally, at the first moment. No. We have become one entity in two bodies, sir. And we’ll remain that way forever.”

  “Very clever. Who built this mechanical marvel for you?”

  “Buckmaster did, sir.”

  “Buckmaster? But he’s been dead since May. You couldn’t have known then—”

  “Buckmaster is still alive, sir,” Shadrach says softly.

  Genghis Mao considers that. He grows extremely thoughtful. He is silent for a long while.

  “Still alive. Strange.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Shadrach makes no reply.

  After a time Genghis Mao says, “You’ve planted a bomb in me.”

  “So to speak, sir, I have.”

  “I have power over all of mankind. And you have power over me, Shadrach. Do you realize what that makes you? You are the true Khan now! All hail, Genghis III Mao V!” Genghis Mao laughs savagely. “Do you understand that? Do you know what you have achieved?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Shadrach admits.

  “You could force my resignation. You could compel me to name you as my successor. You could kill me and assume the Chairmanship, perfectly legitimately. You see that? Of course you see that. Is that what you mean to do?”

  “No, sir. The last thing in the world I want is to be Chairman.”

  “Go ahead. Wiggle your hand at me, stage a coup d’etat. Take power, Shadrach. I’m old, tired, bored, crumbling. I’m willing to be overthrown. I admire your shrewdness. I’m fascinated by what you’ve done. No one has ever fooled me so thoroughly before, do you know that? You’ve accomplished what thousands of enemies have utterly failed to do. Quiet Shadrach, loyal Shadrach, dependable Shadrach—you have me beaten. You own me. I am your puppet now, do you see that? Go on. Make yourself Chairman. You’ve earned it, Shadrach.”

  “It’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “To continue as your physician. To protect your health and strive to extend your life. To remain by your side and serve you according to my oath.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. No, there’s one thing more, sir.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I request a place on the Committee, sir.”

  “Ah.”

  “Specifically, I want authority in the sphere of public health. Government medical policy.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “Control over distribution of the Antidote, sir. I mean to develop a program for immediate worldwide treatment of the healthy population,” Shadrach says. “And expansion of whatever programs currently exist for research into a permanent cure for the organ-rot. That is, a total reversal of what I understand is existing PRC policy.”

  “Ah!” Genghis Mao begins to laugh. “Now it emerges! You do intend to be Khan, then! I keep the Chairmanship, but you call the tunes. Is that it, Shadrach? Is that what you’ve engineered? Very well. You have me. I’m yours, Shadrach. You’ll join the Committee at the next meeting. Draw up your policy statements and submit them.” He glances somberly at Shadrach’s left hand. “All hail,” the Chairman cries, “Genghis III Mao V!”

  When he leaves the Khan’s Retreat, Shadrach’s route back to his own suite takes him through his office, through Committee Vector One, and into Surveillance Vector One, where he halts awhile, as is his habit, to watch the show on the winking screens. All is quiet in the Grand Tower of the Khan. It is the depth of night; all Asia sleeps. But across the planet, out there in the Trauma Ward, life goes on, and also death. Shadrach stands before the multitude of screens, following the random flow, the suffering, the striving, the struggling, the dying. The walking
dead, wandering the streets of Nairobi, Jerusalem, Istanbul, Rome, San Francisco, Peking, shambling across all the continents, the procession of the damned, the lost, the tortured, the condemned. Somewhere out there is Bhishma Das. Somewhere, Meshach Yakov. Somewhere, Jim Ehrenreich. Shadrach wishes them joy and good health for such of life as is left to them. To all, joy! To all, good health!

  He thinks of the laughter of Genghis Mao. How amused the Khan seemed at his predicament! How relieved, almost, at having the ultimate authority stolen from him! But the Khan is beyond comprehension; the Khan is alien, mysterious, unfathomable, ultimately inscrutable. Shadrach does not really know what will happen now. He cannot imagine what counterploy Genghis Mao may already have conceived, what traps he is even now devising. Shadrach will walk warily and hope for the best. He has planted a bomb in Genghis Mao, yes, but he has also seized a tiger by the tail, and he must be careful lest he stumble between the metaphors and be destroyed.

  He stands mesmerized before the dazzling dance of the screens of Surveillance Vector One. It is the fourth of July, 2012. Wednesday. Gentle rain is falling in Ulan Bator, which next week shall be renamed Altan Mangu in honor of the slain viceroy, who already has been forgotten by most of mankind. In this night death will travel the globe, harvesting his thousands; but in the morning, Shadrach Mordecai vows, things will begin to change. He stretches forth his left hand. He studies it as though it be a thing of precious jade, of rarest ivory. Tentatively he closes it, almost but not quite clenching his fist. He smiles. He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips and blows a kiss to all the world.

  Robert Silverberg has written many fine works of fiction and nonfiction. In pointing out the seeming effortlessness with which he writes, Gerald Jonas, writing in the New York Times Book Review, compared him to John Updike. Silverberg lives in California.